Contagious

Otto slowly looked around the room, surveying the damage. “Were you drunk when you killed these people?”

“They’re not people,” Perry said. “And no, I was not drunk, but I mean to correct that situation.” He opened the second bottle and drained half of it before putting it down.

“I guess so,” Otto said. “Listen, man, you know you scare the c.r.a.p out of me, right?”

Perry shrugged. That was the way of things. Didn’t matter what he did, what he said, they looked at him like he was a monster. So why not live up to the billing?

“Margaret is coming in here,” Otto said.

“Sure she is,” Perry said. “Look at all the new toys she has to play with. See this one?” He nudged the dead little boy with his foot. “I call him Slinky.”

“Save me your psycho jokes,” Otto said. “Just understand that when she’s in this room, you make any sudden moves and I’ll put you down.”

“Oh, come on, Clarence! A gun? Don’t be that guy! How about you and I settle this the old-fashioned way?”

“Forget it.”

“What’s the matter, Clarence? Ma.s.sa Dew say you can’t play with the white kids?”

Behind the helmet visor, he saw Clarence’s eyes narrow.

“Go ahead, boy,” Perry said. “Take a swing. I won’t tell on you.”

Perry hoped he would do it. Otto was big enough to count as a challenge. Not much of a challenge, but something. It would feel good to smash in his face.

He had nothing against Otto, really. Except that Otto was f.u.c.king Dr. Montoya, which meant he was getting laid, which was something Perry figured he’d never do again. If that wasn’t a good enough reason to hand out a beat-down, he didn’t know what was.

“I’ll pa.s.s,” Otto said. “You can save all that macho bulls.h.i.t. Only one way you and I are going to dance, and that’s if a bullet takes the lead.”

“Oh, that’s horrible,” Perry said. “Did you write that s.h.i.t yourself?”

Perry thought he saw Otto smile, just a little bit, but then the stone face slipped back into place.

Margaret came into the room carrying a double armful of green bags. She dropped them in a pile. In her black suit, she looked identical to Otto except that she was a foot shorter. Standing side by side, they looked like the adult and child versions of an alien from a bad sci-fi flick.

“Hey, Otto, your other ma.s.sa is here,” Perry said. “Wake up, white people. The Jew is using the black as muscle.”

“I’m not Jewish, Perry, I’m Hispanic,” Margaret said. “And I’ve got The Blues Brothers on DVD, seen it about fifty times, so I know that line. Next are you going to tell me you hate Illinois n.a.z.is?”

Good G.o.d. She knew The Blues Brothers?

“I also know you’re not racist,” she said. “So stop trying to push everyone’s b.u.t.tons. You’re not good at it.”

Perry wondered if Clarence Otto really had any idea just how cool this chick was. He hated everyone in this f.u.c.ked-up project, but he had to admit he hated Margaret a little less than the others. He tilted a fresh beer toward her.

“You want a beer, chica? I tried to offer your boy Toby one, but he told me the only good whitey was a dead whitey.”

Margaret sat down at the table, opposite the little body on the floor. She did it so casually it could have been a normal scene in any kitchen, save for her black biohazard suit and the corpses.

“No, Perry, Clarence didn’t say that. And no, I don’t want a beer, but thank you. You’ve got to stop this.”

“Stop drinking? Why, what a great idea. Sobriety has done so much for me.” He finished the beer and grabbed another. The buzz was really kicking into gear now. He wanted it, needed it to take over so he could forget. If he got drunk enough, maybe he could sleep.

“Perry,” Margaret said, “look around you. Look what you’ve done. You killed these people.”

“Why do you all keep saying they’re people? They were the walking dead.”

“No they weren’t, d.a.m.n it. I saved you, didn’t I?”

“And what a delightful experience that was.”

“I know it was painful,” she said.

Perry laughed. “Yeah. Painful. By the way, you sure your last name isn’t Mengele, not Montoya?”

“Oh, you can just kiss my a.s.s, Perry,” Margaret said. “I saved your life. Amos and I figured out how all by ourselves, because trust me, your disease wasn’t exactly listed in Wikipedia. I know it hurt, but I saved your life—and you compare me to Josef Mengele? How about instead you just say thank you for saving my life, Margaret.”

“And you said I wasn’t good at pushing b.u.t.tons.”

It was funny how clearly you could see emotions through one of those visors. Margaret’s eyes narrowed, and her upper lip wrinkled up just a bit. Frickin’ adorable.

“Don’t forget, Doc, I gave you quite a head start,” Perry said. “I didn’t have any triangles when you got to me, remember? And you can look around all you want, but you won’t see any Chicken Scissors laying around. These people didn’t even try.”

She looked away. Everyone did when he mentioned the scissors. She took a slow breath, then looked at him dead-on again.

“Perry, I learned so much from helping you recover. I can save these people. Why do you think Dew is trying so hard to bring them in alive?”

Perry looked at Margaret, looked into her brown eyes. She had saved his life, that was true. Most of the time he wished she hadn’t.

It was so hard to believe there was a person as good as Margaret left in the world. It was also hard to believe there was a person this naive.

“You’re kidding yourself, lady,” Perry said. “You can’t save them.”

“I can, Perry, and I will. We need your help, more than just finding the hosts. You still won’t tell us anything about your experience. Do you know how frustrating it is when the one person who survived won’t tell you the most basic information?”